Nine Days' Wonder
by wcgreen
Summary: SVU works to solve a string of rapes while Otten and Sofarelli find their footing with the unit. Follows "Transfer List" in the series
1. Baby Steps

Author's notes: "Nine Days' Wonder" immediately follows "Transfer List" and tells of Detectives Otten and Sofarelli's first days with SVU. If you haven't read "Transfer List", then the following will be helpful:

Judith Otten transferred from Brooklyn South Homicide after 16 years there.

Alphonse "Couch" Sofarelli transferred from Manhattan Robbery. He was Stabler's last  
partner as a uniform.

John Munch thinks that Otten is a threat to his job.

Conventions used in my stories: 

Point of departure from series canon is after RAW.

Italics indicate thoughts or translated foreign speech.

The people of SVU are professionals, so there won't be any intra-partner canoodling—no, none at all.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

May 23  
SVU Squad Room 

The shift meeting started with Munch, Fin, and Couch staring at the empty space around Captain Cragen.

"Olivia and Elliot are running down more leads in their rape case," Cragen explained. "Judith is in Brooklyn…."

"She gave up already?"

Munch met his CO's irritated scowl with his best wide-eyed, "Of course I'm kidding" smile.

"No, John—she's bringing her neighbors in with her. They may have something on the Bonner case. When they get here, you and Couch can explain things to them while Fin and Judith talk to the daughter. Oh, and last night was solid work. Good job."

The meeting ended and the three men went to their desks. Couch checked his email; Munch propped his feet on an open desk drawer and started reading his newspaper. Fin fiddled with his keyboard for a minute, then shuffled through the files on his desk. He alternated between the two actions while keeping an eye on the squad room door for Judith Otten's arrival.

His partner lowered his paper to watch him.

_Fin's acting like the ice cream man's about to come through that door. I could rag him about it… or I can see what Couch thinks about his partner after last night's beer._

He dropped the paper and swung around to face Sofarelli.

"So, Sofarelli—what did you and Otten talk about last night?"

Couch leaned back in his chair to get a clear view of Munch. "The usual get-acquainted stuff—previous assignments, cases we hated, why we transferred…."

"What's her reason?"

Munch noticed a break in the rhythm of Fin's fidgeting, but his partner did not join the conversation.

"She didn't get on with her new lieutenant so she put in for a transfer."

"That makes sense."

John's bland reply hid a rush of inward satisfaction.

_Lean on Otten hard enough and she runs. Good—that's really good._

"Have you had a female partner before?"

Couch shook his head.

"It's a lot like polygamy. Does your wife like rivals for your affection?"

"She was a little twitchy until I told her about Judith's grandkids. Anyway, we've been invited to dinner as soon as our schedules match."

"Save room for dessert," Fin commented. "Judith comes from a long line of bakers. Soon as we switch to days, she's gonna start bringing in home-made pastries."

"You guys spent last night talking about food?" Couch asked.

Munch answered before Fin could.

"They were discussing Jake Reynolds, a potential suspect in an open child molestation case who happens to live across the street from Otten. Fin spent a week surveilling him from the inside of Otten's refrigerator."

Fin's sour look was matched by the tone of his reply.

"Just 'cause you don't like banana-nut muffins…."

"No," drawled Munch. "Just 'cause you can't remember that I don't like banana-nut muffins. There is a difference."

Fin's reply was cut off by the _thud_ of evidence bags hitting Fin's desk. He looked up to find Otten accompanied by a tall male with full black beard wearing chinos and a white golf shirt, a woman in jeans and a Hudson University t-shirt, and a first-grader still wearing her maroon plaid school jumper, her thick black hair pulled back in a pony tail like her mother's.

Otten made the introductions: Mandar and Jui Subrahmanian and their daughter Sumana. Fin flagged down a passing admin aide and asked her to settle the Subrahmanians in Interview One then take Sumana to Children's Interview with her choice of soda.

"Jui checked Sumana's room", Otten told everyone after her neighbors had left, "and found these things in a gift bag at the back of her closet,. None of them came from her or Mandar."

Fin picked through the evidence bags —a cheap silver charm bracelet, a Spongebob Squarepants figurine, and a postcard of the Empire State Building, each of which he handed to Munch after examining them. Couch joined the viewing, peering over Munch's shoulder at each item.

"Damn."

Fin held up a bag containing a school photo of a young girl in a blue polo shirt with her hair in neat beaded braids.

"Keneesha Bonner, our vic."

23 May  
Children's Interview

"Remember", Finn told Otten as they stood outside the door to the interview room. "It's not our job to punish her for lyin' to her parents or to scare her into behaving. We need her to tie that stuff to Reynolds; let her mom and dad handle what she did."

"Yes, Fin."

The hint of a smile when she answered told Fin that Otten was humoring him.

_Yeah, all that Homicide superiority crap that John sometimes throws at me. I gotta convince you that it's different here before you really fuck this up for us._

"Look", he said. "When I got here, I knew it all. I'd been Narcotics and nobody was going to teach me anything. Couple of cases and I learned that I knew nothing about this shit. You're not stupid—the sooner you realize how much you need to learn, the better for you and for us."

Otten's smile faded under the force of his glare.

"In other words, lose the attitude?"

"Got it. I know you used to train white shields, but here—you are one. It really is that different."

Otten frowned. "It's…."

Fin cut off her protest. "I don't care what you think it is. One smart-mouth crack can undo all our careful prep with the vic. It can wreck weeks of therapy. Corpses don't care—living, hurting victims do."

She stared at him for a long moment, then she sighed.

"Point taken. Okay—I'm the rookie. How do you want to handle this?"

"Like this."

He opened the door to Children's Interview and motioned Otten to follow him in. Sumana was coloring at the low table in the center of the room. She looked up and smiled.

"Hi, Mrs. Otten."

Fin sat in a child-sized chair at the table. He waved Otten to an adult-sized chair nearby.

_I've helped John out of these bitty chairs too many times to ask you to sit in one._

"Sumana? I'm Detective Tutuola. Can I ask you some questions?"

The girl put down the crayon and looked at him from under thick black bangs.

"Uh-huh."

"Do you know why you're here?"

Sumana nodded. "Mommy found the bag Mr. Reynolds gave me."

"When did you get that bag?"

"Saturday morning."

"Why did you hide the bag?"

"Because I wasn't s'posed to be at his house when he gave it to me. I was s'posed to be at Amy's house. Mr. Reynolds said Mommy would ground me if she saw it and we wouldn't get to play any more."

"Can you tell me what you were playing with Mr. Reynolds?"

Sumana's eyes disappeared when she lowered her head and shook it instead of answering. Fin glanced at Otten while he considered his next question.

_She's paying close attention and she knows this girl better than me. Let's see what she can do._

He jerked his head towards Sumana. Otten's eyes widened then she leaned forward in her chair, bringing her closer to the girl.

"Sumana? You've been to my house to play with Nila and Cara—remember?"

She nodded.

"Do you remember what games you played with them?"

Her head came up. "We played Hide & Seek and Stone School—you were the teacher then I won and I got to be teacher."

Otten smiled at her answer. "Did you play games like that with Mr. Reynolds?"

Sumana shook her head. "We played Candyland. It was a brand new game; he let me open the plastic with his penknife. Daddy won't let me have a knife but Mr. Reynolds said he'd get me one for my birthday."

"Did you play any other games?"

"We played Hide Spongebob. Mr. Reynolds put him under the cushions. I hid him behind the curtains, but Mr. Reynolds said I couldn't do that 'cause Mrs. Reynolds didn't like them wrinkled."

"What else did you do, Sumana?"

She sat up and smiled. "We had ice cream and pancakes and we sang the Barney song. Mr. Reynolds gave me Spongebob and he let me pick whatever I wanted from a box of toys in his garage. Then I had to go home 'cause Mr. Reynolds had to get Mrs. Reynolds at work. He said I could come back next Saturday."

Otten looked up from the girl to Fin. He held her gaze then nodded.

_Go on—ask the tough ones now._

He watched Otten swallow once, her only sign of nervousness.

"Sumana, when you were playing with Mr. Reynolds, did he touch you?"

The girl stared into space.

"He…he patted me on the head after he couldn't find Spongebob. He said I was a good hider. We held hands when we sang and he kissed me right here when I went home."

She pointed to her forehead.

"Okay. Now, Sumana—in the things that Mr. Reynolds gave you was a picture of a girl. Do you know her?"

Sumana ducked her head to her chest, avoiding Otten's stare and her question.

"Sumana…." Otten glanced at Fin, who folded his arms.

_I've got my guess on why she's acting like this—let's see yours._

"Sumana, did Mr. Reynolds give you that photo?"

The little girl shook her head slightly. "I…I took it."

"You took it?"

"Uh-huh. The toy box was under a workbench and there was another box next to it with pictures. I want Mommy to braid my hair with beads like her hair so I took the picture to show Mommy."

"You took the photo because the girl has pretty hair?"

"Uh-huh. Are you mad at me?"

"No, Sumana; I'm not mad at you."

"Is Mommy and Daddy mad at me?" Her voice slipped into a whisper.

"No, I don't think so."

"He—" Sumana pointed at Fin. "He looks mad at me."

Otten smiled; Fin ignored it. "Naw—that's just my face. I'm not mad at you either. You want to finish coloring while we go get your parents?"

"Okay."

Otten followed Fin out, closing the door behind her.

"Well," she said. "That is that."

"Sure is."

"You knew most of those answers before she gave them, didn't you?"

Fin answered, "Like I said—experience. She didn't cringe when I came into the room; she was willing to talk to us; she isn't depressed or afraid of everything. Molested kids aren't outgoing and helpful the way Sumana is."

"So Reynolds still was setting the trap?"

"Yeah—getting her used to sneaking over to his house, lyin' to her parents, and hiding stuff from them. Half the fun is in the chase. Soon as he is certain about her, then the games stop."

He watched her mouth tighten as she swallowed again.

_That thought sickens you. Good—I'm glad you see him as Reynolds the perp and not Jake your neighbor. Now we can teach you how to deal with scum like him._

"If Sumana had been molested, how would you have handled the questions?"

Fin looked down at the room below. Munch, Sofarelli, and Cragen were talking outside the interview room. Cragen caught Fin's attention and beckoned to him.

"I'll explain later—Cap'n wants us."

"You sure were blunt with them."

Munch checked—yes, the Subrahmanians were secure behind the closed door of the interview room.

"Do you", he asked Couch, "know a polite way to say 'You didn't keep track of your daughter and she almost got raped?'"

Couch thought for a moment. "So hitting them on the head with the facts is the best way to handle it?"

Munch leaned against Otten's desk and held up a finger. "Not always. Sometimes, you have to pussy-foot. It depends on the depth of the denial and the fragility of the person. Olivia is great at choosing the right tack to take when explaining things. I'm not bad and Fin occasionally surprises everyone. Elliot's Mr. Insensitive. Ask his advice then ignore it and you'll be safe."

Couch nodded as he filed away Munch's observation.

_Better modify that statement—Couch doesn't know us well enough to tell exaggeration from fact._

"Elliot's not that bad," Munch explained. "His focus is on the catching the perp and he sometimes forgets that there are other people involved. Olivia leans the other way; she puts the victims' problems before solving the case. They balance each other's faults."

"Good partners do that."

Munch gave that a moment's thought. "Great partners do that. Good partners solve cases."

Captain Cragen joined them. "I just talked to Elliot. He and Olivia have a list of employees and regulars from that café. I want you two to meet them and help work through that list. See how many you can catch at home this evening."

He handed John a slip of paper. He glanced at the address—the East Village.

"Captain, what about the Bonner case? If the girl ties Reynolds to Keneesha…."

"Then Casey will get a warrant and Fin and Judith will take a trip to Brooklyn. Don't worry—it's still your case; she's just doing the work for you."

Munch considered that bit of calm assurance.

_Like hell it's still my case. She gets the collar while I do Liv and Elliot's scut work. My luck, I'll get another banana-nut muffin for my efforts._

He grinned, a mouth movement that showed more teeth than good humor.

"Sounds peachy, Captain. When do we leave?"

Cragen looked at the back of the squad room then beckoned at someone.

"Soon as I hear what Fin has."

Munch spent the time waiting for his partner's arrival kicking his heel hard against Otten's desk. He felt the reverberations through the metal although neither Sofarelli or Cragen noticed the rhythmic beating that he gave her desk.

"We got him, Cap'n," Fin said as he and Otten joined the group. "Sumana ties the Bonner girl to Reynolds. Think we need any more?"

"No. Casey's waiting for my go-ahead for the warrant. Call her and get it going. Judith—you live in the Six-Seven?"

"Yes. Bud Forby's the desk sergeant."

"Call him and arrange for CSU and uniforms. I'll touch base with Brooklyn SVU; they may want in on this. Soon as Casey's got the warrant, you and Fin search his place. If Sumana's story bears out, bring Reynolds in for questioning."

Fin headed for his desk. Otten stepped next to Munch.

"May I….?" She pointed at her phone.

"Of course, Detective Otten." He moved out of her way. "Anything to help you catch our perp."

Before she could respond, he waved the East Village address at Couch.

"C'mon, Otten's partner—it's time to help catch Stabler and Benson's perp."

May 23  
737 Westheimer Street, Brooklyn

The Reynolds garage held a black Harley Custom Sportster, a workbench that ran the length of the back wall and two trash cans. Fin had taken it for himself. He set Otten to search the upstairs of the house with a uniform. Debbie Gallagher, a Brooklyn SVU detective he knew from previous cases, and her partner Tyler were searching the downstairs. Mrs. Reynolds was shadowing Otten, voicing protests and complaints that Fin was glad to see Judith ignore.

Jake Reynolds was out getting some groceries. Fin had a uniform watching for his arrival.

"Anything?"

Two CSU techs looked up from their work at Fin's question. The man at the workbench dusting for fingerprints shook his head. The woman at the trash cans shrugged.

"Plenty of stains to choose from—you want them checked?"

"Naw—we don't think Reynolds did anyone here. How about checking the bike? We know he took Keneesha for rides."

Fin next squatted down by the workbench. Under it were a variety of storage containers—milk crates filled with hand tools and bits of useful junk, cardboard boxes with more metal and wood scraps, and two metal tool boxes.

"Can you dust these tool boxes? I want to search them first."

The tech carefully treated them with fine powder, which lay in a smooth coat undisturbed by whorls or ridges.

"No prints. Someone wiped them clean."

"Damn."

Fin pulled on a pair of gloves and opened the box on the left. Just as Sumana said, it held a variety of toys and trinkets.

"Take this with you and dust everything. See if any of the prints match Keneesha Bonner."

The second box held a jumble of papers. Fin carefully stirred the mix: Valentine cards, newspaper clippings about school activities, notebook paper folded into tight squares—notes addressed to Mr. Reynolds or Jake—and two dozen school photos. Each photo showed a smiling girl with dark skin and black hair. He picked one at random, a girl with a gap-tooth grin in a green plaid jumper, and turned it over.

"_To Mr. Reynolds—Love, Diana 3rd grade" Wonder if she's in our files or if no one knows what was done to her?_

He left the techs to finish their work. Back in the house, he found Debbie and Tyler searching the kitchen.

"Couldn't be less interesting, Tyler said, "not even an unbalanced checkbook."

Tyler's cheerful tone told Fin that he was new on the job. He glanced at Debbie, who pointed her partner at a table holding the kitchen phone. While he searched the papers on it, she moved close to Fin and spoke too low for her partner to overhear.

"He's like a puppy. I want to pat his head and scratch his ears."

In a more conversational volume, she asked, "You find what you needed in the garage?"

"Sure did—the box of toys and a box of school pictures with names. Should make tracking down the other vics easy. Mrs. Reynolds still upstairs?"

"Yes, she's bugging your partner. What happened to that tall creepy guy, what's his name—Muntz?

Fin frowned at her. "You know full well it's John Munch—he hit on you enough at Max Reger's retirement party."

Debbie rolled her eyes. "You can't blame me for trying to forget. So, is Munch still around? He okay?"

"Yeah. We're showing the ropes to a couple of new guys. You ever work with Otten?"

"Couple of times. Cool under pressure and she plays well with others."

"Good."

"Nothing odd here, Deb," Tyler called from the phone table. "Where do you want…."

A commotion at the front of the house interrupted Tyler. Fin stepped into the hall to see a fortyish man with short-cut light hair toe-to-toe with Officer Helprin. A grocery sack and a denim jacket lay at their feet.

"What are you people doing in my house? Where's Sally? Is she hurt? Where is she?"

Fin headed down the hall, Debbie and Tyler in tow.

"Mr. Reynolds? I'm Detective Tutuola. Your wife is fine. Nothing's wrong with her."

Reynolds turned toward Fin. "Thank God. Then what's going on? Why are you…."

A high-pitched, hate-filled shriek cut him off.

"Jake!"

Sally Reynolds tore down the stairs, Otten several steps behind her. She threw herself at her husband.

"You sick fuck!"

He tumbled against the foyer wall, his wife driving her fists against his face and chest. Helprin got an arm between the two of them, his head tucked to protect himself from her fists. Fin grabbed next, getting a hand on both Sally's shoulders. Tyler and Deb swung around to grab Reynolds in the same way while Judith joined Fin. A few moments' work and Sally Reynolds was on the floor.

"You gonna behave?" Fin, who had her pinned, asked.

"But he—upstairs, he…."

"I'll cuff you if you don't say you'll behave."

She nodded and Fin let her up.

"Watch her," he told Helprin. The uniform stepped between her and Jake Reynolds. Sally glared at her husband, but she kept quiet. Tyler kept his hand on Reynolds' arm.

"Let me go!" Reynolds demanded. "What'd I do?"

Otten reached through the banister to get a well-thumbed fishing magazine that had been dropped on the stairs.

"I found this in the bathroom. Sally had had enough of the searching and grabbed it out of my hands."

Reynolds stopped protesting. Fin eyed his tensed body, then caught the gazes of the other detectives. Tyler shifted his grip on Reynolds. Deb moved to back up her partner in case Reynolds tried to bolt. Otten took a step closer to Sally before handing the magazine to Fin to page through.

_Bass Monthly—I've seen Sgt. Valeri reading this with his morning bearclaw. Why'd this get Mrs. Reynolds all…damn!_

Fifteen pages in, printed on glossy stock like the article on live bait facing it, was a photo of a naked man raping a young girl. Fin didn't flinch as he flipped through the rest of the magazine. Except for the first and last few pages, all of it was kiddie porn.

_No wonder she freaked. _

Fin again caught Tyler's attention. The younger detective spun Reynolds around, his back towards Fin.

"Jake Reynolds, you're under arrest for possession of child pornography. You have the right to remain…."

Fin handed Tyler his cuffs as he ran through the required warnings.

"That's not mine—it's my brother's. He left it…."

Otten interrupted. "Fin, did you find everything that you needed?"

"Yeah," he said, "we're cool here."

24 May  
SVU Interrogation Room

Casey Novak stifled a yawn between questions.

"So, you were able to verify Sumana's story about how she got Keneesha Bonner's photo?"

Otten nodded. "Yes. Every thing was as she described. We also found child porn bound to look like a legitimate fishing magazine. Fin used that for his arrest of Reynolds. We hit him with the rest of it when we got him back here."

"How long did it take?"

"Three hours. Fin suggested that I act compassionate, pretend that I knew how misunderstood Reynolds is. He said that I would be able to exploit mother-son issues that he couldn't touch. It worked—Reynolds opened up and told us about fifteen victims in addition to Keneesha Bonner."

They were standing in front of Cragen's office, out of the way of the captain and Fin, who also were watching Reynolds through the one-way glass. Casey glanced at the reason they all were there after shift-change. He sat at the table, hands folded before him, chin resting on his chest.

"Think he's snoring?" Otten asked her.

"If so, I envy him. I could use a few good snores."

They joined the conversation by the window.

"Cap'n, you know what John'll say about not being here for this."

Cragen acknowledged the women's arrival with a nod.

"You did most of the work on this, Fin. You kept with it after we'd written the lead off as worthless. You got Reynolds to confess. Don't worry about anything except the good job you did. I'll handle John."


	2. Toddling

May 25  
Day shift  
SVU Squad Room

Jake Reynolds had been arraigned and was enjoying the comforts of Rikers. Fin and Judith were at their desks doing their paperwork. Benson and Stabler were talking to Captain Cragen in his office.

"You're being stared at," Couch announced.

Judith's gaze flicked from her computer screen towards Munch's desk then back to her partner at his desk. "Let me guess—tall, dark, and homely."

"Right in one."

She sighed. "I hate being a nine days' wonder. I want to skip to the point when all the newness has worn off and everyone accepts us as part of the team."

"Three days down, six to go." Couch's lopsided grin reflected her impatience. "Then we'll be part of the furniture."

"Some of us, Couch, more than others."

He snorted at her joke as he resumed reading a file borrowed from Stabler. Judith went back to her paperwork:

Name: Reynolds, Jacob Arnold

DOB: 05/17/1967

Social Security number: 145-67….

Munch leaned between her and the computer screen, his face inches from her own.

"So, when did you convert?"

She leaned back, trying to focus on something besides his nose hair.

"Convert to what?"

He pointed a long finger at the family photo on her desk.

"Judaism—you know, chanting, circumcision, and restrictive food rules. When did you join the Twelve Tribes of Israel?"

"Oh, that," she said, trying to sound like she enjoyed extremely up-close-and-personal interrogations. "About the time of Abraham. You?"

He swung away from her and straightened with all the grace of a construction crane.

"You are kidding."

The flat denial in his words coupled with his invasion of her personal space set her on edge.

"No, I'm not," she said, her tone sharp to cut through his assumptions. "Which would you like: a copy of my temple dues statement or my positive Tay-Sachs test?"

Munch raised an eyebrow.

"Interesting answer. You offer as proof the tie between money and Jews—a mythic tie as my own financial circumstances attest—and a genetic marker of the Ashkenazic Jews. Given that you lack all outward traits of the Ashkenazim, perhaps you're really French-Canadian; they carry Tay-Sachs, too."

He swung about on his heel and returned to his desk, humming something that sounded suspiciously like "Blame Canada."

Judith watched him until he sat down and started fussing with papers on his desk then she turned back to catch her partner grinning at her.

"What's with you?" Residual annoyance snapped her words at him.

"Remember at Mahoney's when we talked about the best way to join a team?" Couch asked. "You told me that each team evolves specific roles necessary for the success of that team. As new members, we can't create our own places; instead, we'll be forced to fit into previously defined roles.

She nodded, not certain where her partner was going with this.

"Well, we're safe. SVU already has a weirdo."

Judith hid a smile behind her hand. "Poking fun at them is not a good idea right now."

"Is that from the 'Nine Day's Wonder Rules for Fitting In'?"

"Something like that."

She went back to her reports.

Munch watched Fin flip through his memo book, verify a fact, then type it into the computerized DD-5 as he documented the earlier parts of the Reynolds investigation.

_Damn it, Fin—you could have called me in. So what if Sofarelli and I spent hours and hours getting nothing from Elliot and Liv's canvass list? We're partners and we're supposed to work together, no matter what._

"So, Fin—you managed to land Reynolds without my help?"

Fin's eyes stayed focused on his screen but his usual grimace deepened.

"Don't say 'land.'" I don't need no fishing shit right now."

Munch peered at him.

"Does that remark stem from your search of Sgt. Valeri's bass magazines? When I came in, he was trying to restore his 'Big Mouth of the Month' picture to its original pristine—or should I say piscine—condition and he was saying some very unkind things about you."

The gibe had its intended result—Fin shifted his attention away from the computer screen. Munch grinned to himself as he braced for some inter-partner banter.

_I tease, therefore I am._

Fin only scowled at Munch then he called out Otten's name.

"Valeri had a copy of Bass Monthly at the desk. On my way in, I checked it out."

"Oh," replied Otten. "And….?"

"Nothing but big, butt-ugly fish from cover to cover."

Otten grinned. "That's good, Fin. I'd hate to arrest a desk sergeant."

"Yeah—we'd never get anyone booked ever again."

"Will we work on the source of the magazines that Reynolds had?"

"Naw," Fin answered. "Cap'n said to hand it off to Special Frauds."

"Oh, well."

They turned back to their reports. Munch slumped in his chair.

_Shut out—I've been completely shut out. What's next—Cragen hands me a box and tells me to clear out my desk? Shit, no—Otten gets that box, not me._

He got himself a mug of tea then sauntered over to Otten's desk. She didn't notice his arrival, although Sofarelli glanced up from his reading.

"Why the black kids?" Munch asked as he perched on the counter of her desk.

"Huh?" Otten didn't look away from her screen.

_She doesn't change trains of thought very well. A murder police should be quicker on her feet._

"Why the black kids, Brooklyn? You adopt or did they just come out that color?"

Judging from the wide eyes and the shocked drop of her jaw, he now had her attention.

_Okay—now get serious. Whipsaw her, keep her off-balance. If she's not comfortable, she'll make mistakes. It works on perps in the box; it will work on her._

"Seriously, if you've adopted your kids, then you should have some idea of what abused children go through. Did you?"

He watched her draw in a deep breath; the suspicion in her eyes showed she wondered whether he was insolent or tactless.

"Yes, we did."

"At what age?"

"They were around seven."

_Conversational tones—I'm getting the benefit of the doubt. Good for me, not so good for her._

He leaned closer. She eased her chair back and swung around to face him

_Her personal space is five feet deep. Now, to learn more…._

He spread his lips in a sincere-looking smile.

"And their history? Neglected? Abused? If so, how so?"

"They're both fine now."

The anger in her voice drew her partner into the conversation.

"Judith, he's just asking about your experience with abused kids. It's a fair question."

Couch's calm words worked. Munch kept smiling as she said, "Okay" to her partner and turned back to him.

"My apologies. You asked about abuse…there wasn't any sexual abuse and the physical abuse was limited to random back-handing if they got in the way. Their home life was fairly stable until Dante turned five so they didn't have many attachment problems."

"Fin, Munch, Sofarelli, Otten…."

Cragen's voice called them into his office.

"People, we've had another attack that fits the MO of the three that Elliot and Liv are working. John, Fin—you go to the scene. Find something we can ID and nail this perp with—crawl the scene on your hands and knees if you have to, but find it."

He looked at Otten and Sofarelli.

"As soon as we have a photo of the victim, I want you talking to the first three victims and everyone who knows them; get the list from Elliot. See if any of them recognize the fourth vic. We need to find a tie-in for the victims or finally establish if these are all random grabs. The papers already are calling us inept idiots for not catching this guy—we'll look that much dumber if we don't solve this now. Any questions? Good, now get going—John, Fin, stay a minute."

After the door had closed behind Sofarelli, Cragen asked, "How are those two coming along?"

Fin spoke up first. "I think Judith's a bit too sure of herself, but I guess that's her experience talking. Other than that, she's cool."

"Okay. How about Sofarelli?"

Munch shrugged. "Intelligent, catches important details, methodical, squeamish—he'll have to work on that. Should Otten be as good as Fin says, he'll come along fine."

'_Should Otten be_ _as good…,' but she is not. It's a condition contrary to fact, as the grammarians say. I just said I think she will fail here—not my fault if no one understands the warning._

"Good to hear," Cragen said. "I'd rather give them day or two more with you, but I also need you working this crime scene. There's a noon media feed; see if you can give me something to toss the jackals besides my ass."

Parking lot  
Dana Discovery Center  
Harlem Meer

"It's the same as before."

Olivia filled in Fin and Munch after they arrived. They stood in the center of the parking area, coats open in the warming morning air.

"Victim is Janey Gregor, age 51. She was on her way home from bingo when she was jumped from behind. Perp forced her into a dark-colored van, brought her here, raped her under those trees, then knocked her unconscious. Bus took her to Mt. Sinai; Elliot's on his way to talk to her."

Fin glanced at his partner, who spoke up.

"Interesting change in roles, Liv. Elliot grow empathic overnight?"

She stared into space and sighed.

"We're missing something—we both feel it. Maybe shaking up our routine will help. Anyway, CSU is sweeping the area. Let's see what we can spot."

They started under the willow where Janey Gregor had been found by a jogger. CSU had marked the spot but hadn't yet bagged any evidence. Olivia, Fin, and Munch each examined her purse, its contents spilled on the pavement, a used ribbed condom, and a white shell button.

"The button's from her blouse," Olivia told them.

Fin pointed a gloved finger at the condom.

"Leavin' that behind makes him a fool."

"An arrogant fool. He thinks he'll never be caught," amplified Munch.

Olivia shook her head. "Or he wants to be caught. Trouble is—he's not giving us enough to catch him."

Fred Welkin, a middle-aged man very proud of his red hair weave, called out to Benson.

"None of these tread marks match to a van. Sorry."

The three of them trisected the area around the crime scene, carefully examining each section of pavement, grass, and mulched bed no matter that two other sets of eyes had already scanned it.

"Anyone know what the wind was like here last night?"

Olivia and Fin stopped searching to stare at Munch, who was working the bed under the willow.

"Wind—which way it blew and how fast. Do you know or should I call NOAA and ask?"

Olivia waved Fred over to her from the east side of the parking area.

"Light and from the south," she called out. "It blew in from over the water."

John pointed at the Meer and raised his eyebrows. When Olivia nodded, he turned around and headed to the opposite side of the parking area, where a wide path led to Cathedral Parkway. There, he began to examine the grass at the edge of the pavement.

"Anything?" Olivia asked.

He pulled a clear evidence bag from the pocket of his suit coat and placed a gum wrapper in it.

"The detritus of a careless culture. If the wind was blowing from the south, it would have blown anything dropped by the perp this way. If he had two van doors opened at one time—the driver's door and the door he dragged the victim from—maybe loose papers from the van blew this way."

Fin called to him from the water's edge. "Man, you are grasping for straws."

Munch snagged a crumpled silver wad and bagged it.

"More like picking up litter. City should pay me extra for this."

SVU Squad Room  
Early Afternoon

Elliot rushed through the entrance to the squad room and tossed a printout onto Olivia's desk.

"Nothing like intense media pressure to get us quick lab results," she commented. "What they find?"

He rummaged through the photos spread across their desks and pulled out two.

"Part of that litter John picked up was a small Mylar packet. Lab said it held herbal cough drops. It also had some fibers stuck to it; lab matched them to the carpet of a Chevy passenger van—a new one or one rarely used."."

He handed her the two photos.

"See anything?"

Olivia examined them. One was from the first attack; it showed where Megan Forester was found unconscious at the edge of a city parking lot bordered by a chain-link fence. The next showed the purse of Tonya Phelps, the second victim, its contents scattered on the pavement of a housing project lot.

"Damn."

She pointed to a silver bag peeking out from under the purse then to a similar bag caught in the mesh of the fence in the first photo.

"That's what we were missing. We assumed the stuff by the purse belonged to the vic, but that doesn't. It belongs to the perp. Any prints?"

"Yeah, but they're not in the system."

Elliot looked around the squad room. Couch was at the coffee pot with Fin checking out a tray of pastries. Otten was making notes on a printout at her desk. Chloe the shift admin and two uniforms were talking by Interview Two. Munch was at his desk watching him with an expectant smile on his face.

Elliot addressed the group. "Anyone know anything about herbal cough drops in a silver bag?"

Otten turned his way. "Maybe Krauter? They come in a Mylar pouch in a cardboard box. Nasty-tasting things, but my mother swears by them."

"Where does she get them?"

"Apothecary in the West Village—that and a German delicacies shop uptown."

Elliot turned to his partner.

"Sounds like the break we need right now. I'll fill Cap in; you get everyone moving."

He headed for Cragen's office as Olivia waved John, Fin, and Couch to her.

"Give the uptown address to John and Fin," she told Otten. "We'll take the West Village one. Find out every other place in the City that stocks those cough drops and split the list three ways. We'll hit as many of those places as we can today."

To the other detectives, she said, "We're looking for a male with a Chevy passenger van with the seats removed, possibly black or dark blue. He may buy lots of Krauter cough drops—either frequent purchases or large quantities because we've found empty bags at three of the crime scenes. If you get any leads, let me and Elliot know. Questions?"

Otten handed out two slips of paper. Munch snatched his from her hand, muttered something about German delicacies and oxymorons, then followed Fin out the door.


	3. Walking

May 25  
Your Health Shoppe  
E. 42nd Street, Brooklyn

Your Health Shoppe, a small health food and homeopathic store, was the fifth of six on Otten and Sofarelli's share of the list. Since Judith had chosen 'even', Couch talked to the clerk while his partner looked around the store.

"Do any of your customers buy large quantities of Krauter Cough Drops?"

The clerk, an older woman with thick gray hair braided and coiled about her head, looked up at the detective.

"Very few of our customers buy those—they taste terrible and the menthol interferes with our homeopathic remedies. If it weren't for Robbie, I'd stop carrying them."

"Robbie likes those things?"

"Oh, yes. He buys them three and four boxes at a time. Of course, he thinks homeopathy is mumbo-jumbo. He actually told me to my face that I'd be better off drinking sewer water than taking…."

"When was the last time Robbie bought these cough drops?"

"Hmm…maybe two, three days ago."

"Hey, Judith."

Otten turned from the display of floral tinctures that she had been examining and joined her partner at the register.

"Ma'am," Couch asked, "do you have Robbie's full name and address?"

The clerk brought a Rolodex from under the counter.

"We keep the addresses of anyone interested in our mailings. Let me see—here it is: Robert Cusick, 13715 Brooks Avenue."

Otten wrote the address in her memo book.

"Do you know what he drives?"

The clerk shook her head. "He walks, comes from that direction."

She pointed south.

Unmarked Ford Taurus

Trinity and Dey

Benson flipped her phone shut.

"That was Judith. They have a Robert Cusick, address on Brooks Avenue. The last store on their list is in the same area, so they're going to check it out then meet us at his address."

Elliot frowned at the slow traffic around their Taurus and gripped the steering wheel harder.

"It'll take forever to get there. See if John and Fin have anything."

That task took less than a minute.

"The answer to the question 'Do you have anything?' is 'Hell, no—click'. I'm glad I'm not riding with John today. You know what's with him?"

"My guess," answered Elliot, "Judith Otten."

"So she went from stranger to ex-wife in less than three days?"

Elliot grinned. "More like John hasn't wormed all her secrets out of her yet. Remember—he's happiest when he know everything about everybody. Couch and Otten are unknowns. Until he is comfortable with them, he probably thinks of them as dangerous."

Benson eyed her partner. "Sounds like higher than normal Munch paranoia to me."

"Not really. I know what Couch can do, but the rest of you haven't worked with him. None of us knows Otten. We trust them because Cap picked them. After we've worked with them for awhile, see how they handle things, we'll feel better about having them at our back."

He turned his attention from the traffic to his partner.

"You should talk to Otten about John."

"Because…?"

He shrugged. "Because that's what you women do—talk. Where to buy shoes, where to get a low-cal lunch, why John isn't a jerk…."

She chuckled. "Okay, I'll have my people call her people and we'll do lunch. Happy?"

His grin crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"Yeah. Now, if this damn traffic would start moving…."

Outside Robert Cusick's apartment building  
13715 Brooks Avenue

"Y'know—if we wore clown make-up, we wouldn't look so much like two detectives sitting in an unmarked car."

Judith sighed. They had been sitting for thirty-five minutes and Couch already had discussed the weather, what she was serving Hanan and him for supper the next weekend, Stabler and Benson's probable arrival time, the muffins she brought that morning—the walnut-date ones being his favorite, whether she followed any local sports teams and how he thought the Mets hadn't a chance in Hell. Now, he was getting silly.

_There's a lot to be said for companionable silence._

"We'd be inconspicuous only if our car were toy-sized," she said. "Clowns not in clown cars stand out."

"If clowns weren't in clown cars they'd have to stand; there's no place here to sit."

She turned and used the flat stare that still made her sons tremble in their shoes. Couch grinned back.

"Would you rather discuss _khimar_?"

_No, I'd rather not. However, we might as well get it over with…._

"I understand that you are on-call as an Arabic translator. I know that I may work cases with Muslims perps and vics. I don't see why I need to wear a head scarf while working those cases."

Couch kept his eyes focused on the apartment building.

"Only when it will make things easier—in mosques and in private homes if the family follows that custom. You already dress modestly; if you cover your head, then no one is offended."

I don't dress modestly; I dress for my job. You try wearing a shoulder holster over a tank top or hanging all this hardware off the waist of bike shorts.

"If I have to hide under a scarf so that Muslim men won't think impure thoughts, then I'm offended. It's their responsibility to watch what they think, not mine."

She kept watch on the apartment entrance while Couch turned toward her, his hands palm-up as if he wanted her to accept his opinion as a gift.

"Look—we can't expect people to drop their customs when they move here."

"_Dann sollte ich Deutsches sprechen und Sie sollten gezwungen werden, es zu erlernen, also können Sie mit mir sprechen."_

Couch's puzzled stare softened into understanding.

"Was that something about not speaking German now that you live in an English-speaking country?"

"Close—I said that maybe you should learn German so you can speak to me."

He spread his fingers, a gesture conveying both apology and "Hey, they're not my customs—what do you want me to do?"

"How about I teach you to wear _khimur_ correctly and you decide when to wear it? I'll trust you to know if it will make the victim more comfortable or make a suspect easier to deal with. That okay?"

She spent a few moments thinking it over. The compromise didn't leave her a reason to refuse, so she nodded.

"And I'll listen to you if you say it's essential; you know Muslim culture. Do understand—it's not the scarf itself; it's the symbolism. It's the same as saying rape victims always dress to entice their attackers."

Couch snorted. "I'm not disagreeing with you but it goes deeper than that. Women in _hajib _say they're reserving their beauty for their husbands. They think that by covering themselves with a _khimur,_ people will judge them solely on their intelligence and talents."

"Sounds like they've internalized the party line. I say that it's up to me to dress to suit the activity and you must refrain from being distracted by my appearance."

Sofarelli pulled out his memo book and flipped it open.

"Note to self—partner is gorgeous and I'm not supposed to notice."

She laughed out loud. "And although you're quite the charmer, please assure Hanan that you're safe from me."

Couch slid his memo book into his pocket.

"So, who'd you vote for in the last election?"

26 May  
SVU Squad Room

"The eviction notice was dated May 21 and none of Cusick's neighbors have seen him for several weeks before that—maybe as long ago as mid-March. His apartment was stripped of all personal belongings, but the furniture and small appliances were left behind. Cusick may still be in the area; the clerk at the health food store says he bought cough drops there two or three days ago."

Elliot addressed the squad at the shift meeting, updating them on their suspect for the string of four rapes.

"We'll be sitting on the health food store for the next few days in case Cusick comes back for more cough drops. Liv has copies of his DL photo for everyone working surveillance."

Benson held up a photo of a white male, 32 years old, brown eyes, brown hair running straight along his thin face to his collar.

Captain Cragen took over the meeting.

"For those of you who haven't heard, two officers from the Seven-Eight were found dead last night in a motel on Flatbush Avenue. Preliminary reports have it as a murder-suicide; rumor has it that they were having an affair. They leave behind two spouses and three kids."

He looked carefully at the men and women gathered around him.

"One PP reminds you that canoodling with your coworkers is not allowed. I want you to know that I won't tolerate even the appearance of it under any circumstances. Munch, Fin—you're on-call. Otten and Sofarelli will sit on the health food store. Stabler and Benson will run Cusick's photo by the vics then check out Cusick's last known work address."

The meeting broke up. Fin and John headed to their desks while the other detectives remained to talk to Cragen.

"Looks like we'll have to give up our cozy love nest," Munch informed his partner.

"Suits me. You never did any of the housework anyway," Fin sneered back at Munch.

Elliot paused on his way out the door. "I'm telling."

"You tell and I'll head to the crib and short-sheet your partner's bunk," Fin shot back.

During the banter, Munch opened an on-line article on the murder-suicide mentioned by Cragen. It caught Otten's eye as she headed to her locker. She came up behind Munch to read over his shoulder.

"Morton's an idiot," she said.

Munch leaned back to look up at her.

"I hate to inform you of this, Brooklyn, but there's no Morton mentioned in this article. There's an Officer Karen Henry, deceased; an Officer Joseph P. Delgado, deceased, a Detective Evon Skelton, the primary and not deceased, Sgt. Ed Tucker from Internal Affairs, sad to say not deceased, and several bereaved relatives, also not deceased."

Otten's sour frown didn't lighten. "Lt. Kevin Morton of Brooklyn South Homicide. Evon will be a good detective, but right now he still needs map and compass to find the coffee pot. This may be a slam-dunk, but the media attention requires an experienced primary and Morton threw Evon at it. He's an idiot and I'm glad to be out of there."

She glanced over at Fin, who was staring at her, mouth open as if about to speak.

"I know, Fin. You think it's hubris. I know it isn't."

From the entrance, her partner called her name and jingled a set of car keys.

Otten followed Couch out of the squad room.

Fin switched his stare to Munch.

"Who-bris?"

"Greek noun: overbearing pride or presumption; arrogance. 'Those whom the gods would destroy, they first make proud.' "

John looked around, then leaned closer to his partner. "Do you have misgivings about our new colleague?"

"Like I told Cap'n, she acts like she knows it all. She wasn't that way when I was sitting on Reynolds' house. Maybe it's her way of hiding that she's nervous about us."

Munch cocked his head sideways. "We're such a scary lot."

Fin snorted. "Speak for y'self. You planning to leave any meat on her bones when you're done chewing on her?"

"Who, me? I'm only asking questions, learning all I can about our new colleague. Our lives may depend on her so we should know her strengths and weaknesses."

Fin's narrowed eyes showed that he didn't completely believe that statement.

"You going give Sofarelli the same treatment?"

John shook his head. "I don't antagonize anyone who knows more ways to kill me than I know."

Fin's phone rang.

"SVU—Tutuola."

He grabbed a pen and began making notes on a scrap of paper.

"We'll be there."

He handed the paper to his partner.

"Speaking of getting killed—someone shanked a working girl behind the auto storage lot on Houston. You tell Cap'n and I'll get a car."

Electro Starters & Alternators  
Rogers Avenue, Brooklyn

Olivia Benson picked her way carefully through the heaps of odd stuff strewn inside the starter shop. Boxes thick with dark gray grime stacked in haphazard towers gave her the narrowest of paths from the front door to the service window, where a wiry man in a dark blue work shirt with "Mikey" embroidered above the pocket awaited her and Elliot.

She placed a hand on the sill; the grit made her snatch it back and examine it. Even that briefest of contacts had turned her fingertips black.

The wiry man behind the counter handed her a pink cotton rag.

"Here, ma'am. Place ain't as clean as it ought be."

"Thanks. I'm Detective Benson, my partner Detective Stabler. We need to talk to you about Robert Cusick."

"Robbie." Mikey said the name as if it were coated in ground glass. "You run into him, spit on him for me. Up and quit with nine cars wanting alternators installed—three of 'em those damn Jap SUVs. Had to do them myself."

"When was that?"

"More than a month ago—April 3rd. Never came back for his check and he left his tools. 'Course, he had crap for tools."

"Did he say why he quit?"

Mikey looked from Benson to her partner. "No way I'm repeating it to a lady. Weren't a reason, anyway—just a bunch a complaints 'bout this place."

"You mind if we ask the other people here?"

"Nope."

Mikey opened a door next to the service window.

"Go through here, then turn right. Steve and Joe are at their benches; Raul is at the lift. Watch where you walk."

Watching where she walked was easy; she just put her feet where the boxes and junk wasn't. She spoke over her shoulder to Elliot.

"Do you know what all this stuff is?"

He pointed to a round metal thing that sat on two metal feet like an old-fashioned alarm clock.

"That's an alternator. The ones with gears are starters. That machine there is a sand blaster, that's a lathe, and that's a drill press."

She followed his pointing from one odd machine to another. The sand blaster was a square metal box. The lathe looked like a drill press laid on its side; none of the machines had labels.

"Now you know," he told her, "how I feel when we canvass the fashion district."

"At least the rag trade keeps their work rooms clean."

The theme of grime and clutter extended to the workshop, where stark fluorescent lights over the benches lit Steve and Joe, two elderly men, their faces so smudged with gray that it was hard to tell the white man from the black man. Both wore dark blue work shirts and pants. Olivia made the introductions and asked about Cusick's last day on the job.

"Hell, Robbie didn't say nothing about why he was leaving. He just told Mikey off and left. Damn near run Joe here over on his way out."

Joe laughed, more wheeze than chuckle. "Gave me the finger after he missed me. Guess it was his way of waving goodbye."

"Have either of you seen Cusick or talked to him since then?"

The two men shook their heads. Benson thanked them and asked directions to Raul and the lift.

Behind the shop were several cars with their hoods up and a small pick-up truck with "Electro Starters & Alternators" painted on its fenders. She spotted a figure in dark blue standing by a white minivan suspended between four metal posts.

"That's the lift, Liv. It's another thing that guys instinctively recognize."

"Thanks, Elliot. Now, imagine an elbow in your ribs…."

He faked a wince. "Just thought you might want to know. Hey, Raul!"

The man by the lift walked over to them. He was half the age of the other men, not that it was obvious under the grease and dirt on his skin.

"Yes?"

This time, Elliot made the introductions and asked about Cusick.

"Yes—he work here. He tol' me he got some money an' he didn't have to work no more. I haven't seen him—no, but I seen his car. It was for sale down the street—Caleb's Fine Autos."

Roderick at Caleb's Fine Autos didn't know Cusick, but he remembered the tan 1989 Toyota Camry. His boss had bought it from Bronx Auto Auctions in March and sold it two weeks later. A call to the auto auction told them that the Camry came to the auction from Harlem Chevrolet.

26 May  
Sales office  
Harlem Chevrolet

"Yes, I remember Mr. Cusick. It's hard to forget a cash sale."

"Cash sale?"

Olivia glanced at her partner, then she placed a copy of Cusick's license photo on the desk. Benjamin Walters, a pudgy man in a starched white shirt and rep tie, picked it up and examined it.

"This is him and yes—it was a cash sale with a trade-in. A tan Camry, if I recall correctly."

Olivia nodded as he confirmed their information. "What did Cusick buy?"

Walters reached behind him and plucked a brochure from a rack.

"An Express Passenger Van, LT trim level in Dark Metallic Green. He expressly wanted the driver-side swing-out doors."

Elliot opened the brochure. "Wow—what does this run?"

"List on that model is $33,000. Mr. Cusick did not dicker. He asked if we could give him a thousand for his trade and the sales manager approved the deal."

Olivia asked, "Did Cusick say where his money came from?"

"No, but I did hear him say 'Thank you, Uncle Pete' when we handed him the keys."

26 May  
Tomlin's Lunch Bar  
E. 42nd Street, Brooklyn

Olivia blew on a spoonful of tomato soup while she watched Judith Otten remove a tea bag from her mug. Elliot and Couch were watching for Cusick from the burgundy Taurus that Couch had drawn from the motor pool.

_I wonder if she has her suits made. She's worn three—that blue one, yesterday's was black, and today's is gray—all identical in style. At least she varies her blouses: pink silk with a soft collar today, red turtleneck yesterday._

"So," she picked up the update where she had left off. "We ran the six-pack past the four vics. Megan Forester and Tonya Phelps couldn't make an ID. Janey Gregor picked out Cusick and Heidi Felton shook like a leaf and refused to look, she was so scared of seeing his face again."

She tasted another spoonful of soup.

"Cragen has people checking city hotels and rental agencies for Cusick's new address. They're also looking for a Peter Cusick or anyone named Peter who may have left money or an insurance policy to him. I'm hoping he calls soon; we've been bouncing all over the city and we're still no closer to Cusick."

"It doesn't appear to make sense," Otten said. "If Cusick came into enough money to quit his job, buy a new vehicle, and walk away from his lease, then he should be happy. Happiness doesn't drive anyone to rape; frustration and anger do."

_You don't need to tell me that._

"Unless," Otten continued, "the money gave Cusick the means to fulfill a fantasy…."

Benson put her spoon down and stared into space as she thought.

_Thirty-two years old, no discernable social skills, blue-collar, nothing from his neighbors about female visitors, father split while in grade school, lived with his mother until she died two years ago—dominated by her? Maybe he also had horrible luck with women and spent his time fantasying about getting even….If someone hands such a guy enough money to make his dreams come true, do we get Cusick and a dark green van?_

"It is the perfect vehicle for grabbing women off the street."

Otten nodded. "Not that it explains why he does it or why he chose the women he did."

"We'll have to ask him when we catch him."

Benson picked up her spoon again. She ate her soup while Otten finished her salad.

"The M.E. we work with," Judith asked, "Warner?"

Olivia nodded.

"Will she mind if I give Couch the cadaver tour? The sooner he becomes comfortable with bodies and autopsies, the better."

"Melinda will make you clean it up if he hurls."

"That's not a problem. I've done this before."

"Yeah, Fin said you're used to partnering with new detectives."

_Okay, this should be the opening Elliot wants me to take._

Y'know, it's strange," Olivia said, "I picture 'Homicide detective' and I think of someone like John—cynical, jaded, sarcastic. You seem untouched by it all."

Otten shook her head slowly. "Oh, there are days…it gets to me, but I'm not vocal about it. I was ready to retire eighteen months ago. David and I were planning to travel, spend time with our grandchildren, putter around the yard, grow old together."

She stared past Olivia, seeing a future that had turned impossible. For a moment, her lips trembled and her eyes moistened then she blinked and shook it off.

"After David died, I threw the papers away. Keeping busy was better than retiring alone. Don't worry—Fin's already warned me about black humor; he said that it doesn't play well here."

Olivia said, "We have our lighter moments, but there's been few of them recently. John cracks the jokes right now and they're usually pretty bleak."

"We all cope as best we can. You want jaded sarcasm, you should try Mitch Adamson at the Five-One; he makes Detective Munch seem carefree."

"About John…."

Olivia sipped her soda, using the pause to pick her words.

"It might seem like he is deliberately picking on you."

Otten gave her a thoughtful smile. "If anything, it's my fault for transferring this late in my career. When someone my age becomes joins a new squad, it attracts more attention than otherwise. Besides, everyone gives the new guys a hard time—how else to find out if they can handle the job?"

Olivia listened carefully.

_Okay, she's good on this. I'll tell Elliot that there's nothing to worry about._

"Well, since you don't mind being treated like a rookie…."

She smiled and handed Judith the lunch check.

"Meet me at the car and we'll give the guys a chance to eat and chew over our theory."


	4. Hitting Their Stride

29 May  
SVU Squad Room  
8:10 a.m.

Captain Cragen surveyed his squad room. Elliot and Olivia were picking through printouts, searching for Cusick's name or ones that he might have chosen as pseudonyms. Fin had just hung up his phone and was scribbling a note. John was staring at the city map, his eyes narrowed and lips pursed with concentration. Otten and Sofarelli were scanning more printouts for Cusick's name or anything that might tie to him. The slumps in the detectives' postures and the lack of banter showed how the case weighed on them.

_Two days now without any new leads and they're all frustrated. I'll give it one more day then we fall back and regroup._

"Okay, people," he called to them. "What do we have for Cusick?"

No one looked up as they answered.

"Nothing."

"Nichts."

"Nada."

"We ain't got shit."

"لاشيء"

"Congress."

Six heads turned towards Munch, who smirked back at them.

"Congress—it's the opposite of progress, which is what this case is lacking."

Cragen gave him a flat stare. "Could we save the political commentary for after Cusick's arraignment? Seriously, Elliot—what do we have?"

Elliot swung his chair around to face Cragen.

"He's right, Cap—we got nothing. No sightings of Cusick or his van anywhere. He hasn't checked into a hotel under his own name; he hasn't rented a new place; he hasn't bought any more cough drops. Near as we can tell, he dropped off the face of the earth."

"Anything yet on his Uncle Peter?"

"No one named Peter has left money to anyone named Cusick in this state Special Frauds is checking other states for us; Judith called in a favor so it's priority with them. We're also looking at bank wire transfers and money orders—see if Cusick cashed one since the end of February, but that's also going to take a while."

He held up a thick printout to show how long 'a while' would be.

"Cusick have a bank account?" Cragen asked.

"Nope. He cashed his paycheck at the bodega near his job. If he opened one since then, we haven't found it."

"You're still sitting on the health food store?"

Elliot nodded. "It's John and Fin again today."

Cragen turned to them. "What about your hooker?"

Fin answered, "We got a line on a Roberto Segas. Canvass uncovered an ex-girlfriend who heard him boasting about paying a bitch back for rolling him. He has no known address so the ex is gonna call when she sees him next. Patrol's also keeping a eye out for him."

Cragen next looked at Otten and Sofarelli.

"How about that group of child endangerment calls you two took yesterday?"

Judith shook her head. "That was a daughter getting revenge for being grounded last weekend. She asked her friends to call us and claim her mother was chaining her to the radiator and refusing to feed her. ACS took the case over; they'll make certain the girl doesn't cry wolf again."

"Be nice if they all were that easy. How was the cadaver tour?"

"Fine," Couch answered with a forced smile. "I learned a lot."

His partner's smile was not forced.

"It was more than fine," she told the group. "They were working on a female floater and a body found after two weeks in his storage locker. Couch observed marine animal predation on body protuberances…."

"Ears, nose, toes, fingers, nipples, penis," chanted Elliot, his gaze on Couch's fading smile. "You have to careful, because the nipple nibbling from crabs can resemble the stippling from a shotgun."

Couch scowled at his former partner as Otten resumed her story.

"…and how adipocere is used to determine the length of time a body has been submerged…"

Without taking his gaze from the map, Munch chimed in.

"Adipocere, a soapy wax formed from the body's fats. Those fats hydrolyze faster in moist, airless environments such as underwater."

Couch's jaw tightened and he swallowed hard.

"And," Otten continued, "he observed the signs of advanced decomposition..."

"You mean," said Fin, "the messy yuck that spills from the corpse after a couple weeks? Hell, that stench would gag a dead maggot."

Olivia shook her head. "I don't know, Fin. From what I've seen, maggots love that stuff."

Couch shuddered as if she had dropped a maggot down his shirt.

"…but he did not vomit," finished Otten, "for which I am very grateful."

The team applauded his valiant effort. Couch swallowed hard again.

"Thanks, guys. Thanks a whole bunch."

"Cheer up, son." Cragen went over and patted him on the shoulder. "We all had to go through it. Just remember—never throw up on me. It leaves a very bad impression."

Couch's jaw dropped as he realized that even his CO was teasing him. Cragen gazed at his team with only a hint of a smile.

"Shouldn't you people be working?"

They all took the hint. After a few minutes, Otten looked up from her printout.

"Is Detective Munch still staring at the map?" she asked her partner.

"Yep, like those four pins are going to rearrange themselves into an arrow pointing at Cusick's location."

"Not likely. Two points may form a line, but four locations by themselves rarely make a pattern. These certainly don't—they're too scattered."

"At least it keeps Munch occupied. He could be bugging you."

She made a "tsk" sound.

"He's asked about my religion, my children, my education, the languages I speak, my preferences in types of homicide, my relatives on the job—you missed that one; he began with "Do you spell nepotism 'O-T-T-E-N'. Olivia says that this is normal behavior for him, but he truly annoys me."

"There can't be too many more questions he could ask—come to think of it…."

Couch paused and looked thoughtful.

"You know, there are lots more questions he could ask. There is 'Are you a screamer or a moaner?', 'Do you like silk or leather when you're tied to the bedposts?', 'Have you done three or more men at one time?', 'Did you do free sex during the sixties or did you charge…?' "

He stopped because Otten had gone red beet, her eyes so wide her lashes had merged with her eyebrows. She sputtered soundlessly until her tongue found traction.

"You…you…." She eyed him from under knit brows, her mouth curled in a sneer, then she relaxed. "You're paying me back for the morgue teasing, aren't you?"

He grinned.

"Okay, so you can take and give teasing. Good for you—just don't give Detective Munch any ideas."

"I don't think he needs any help in that regard."

Over Judith's shoulder, Couch saw Munch rise from his chair and turn in their direction.

"By the way," he whispered. "Munch at 5 o'clock."

She flinched.

"False alarm. He and Fin are leaving."

Otten checked her watch.

"Just in time to make the health store opening at 9:30. Let's hope something breaks today; it's our turn again tomorrow."

Two hours passed. Coffee mugs and crumbs from fruit quick breads shared desk space with printouts and files. Four pairs of eyes strained through columns of data, switching between hard-copy and on-line versions.

Otten's cell phone chirped. No one looked up as she answered.

"Otten. Yes? Great. Connie, I owe you…I don't owe you that much. Forget it, Connie. See you tomorrow—bye. Elliot?"

His name spoken attracted the attention of all three detectives.

"Connie has faxed info about an insurance pay-out to R.L. Cusick, beneficiary of Arthur Peter Frankson, his great-uncle."

Stabler set his printout aside. He blinked twice to clear his eyes.

"How much?"

"$125,000."

An admin aide dropped some papers on Olivia's desk. She paged through them.

"This is it," she announced. "The insurance company opened a money market account with Armstrong Cutter in Cusick's name. Cusick withdrew $40,000 in cash from their local office the day before he quit his job. He then made several more cash withdrawals until the account was empty. The final one was Monday of last week."

She turned the papers so her partner could read them. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair.

"I'll tell Cragen we're heading to Armstrong Cutter."

They were out the door in less than thirty seconds. Couch moved his stack of printouts to the side of his desk.

"I guess we can stop looking through these. What does your sister-in-law want in exchange?" he asked.

Judith added her sheaf of printouts to his pile. "Connie wants to take me speed-dating."

"May you should take her up on her offer. It can't hurt."

The pain that tightened her face told him that yes, it could hurt.

"Sorry—I won't mention it again."

Judith waved that away. "I'm not upset at you or at Connie. I simply don't want to date right now."

She turned back to her email, ending the conversation.

May 29th  
Your Health Shoppe

Stabler parked two spaces behind the burgundy Taurus and waited while Olivia approached the unmarked car.

"Who's first for lunch?" she asked through the open driver's window.

Fin shot out of the driver's door.

"Me. Anything's better than watching Mr. Conspiracy at work. We'll be at that Mexican place."

She slid into the driver's seat as her partner and Fin drove off. John sat on the passenger side, cell phone clamped between ear and shoulder, legal pad balanced on left knee, and a city map folded to show Brooklyn and Manhattan bridging the span between dashboard and right knee.

He glanced at Olivia in greeting; the phone held his attention.

"What? Sand? Where? When? Okay—got it. Thanks."

He flipped the phone shut and made notes on the legal pad then he drew a tiny circle on the map. With that accomplished, he turned and addressed Benson.

"Did you learn anything from Armstrong Cutter?"

She shook her head. "Cusick gave them his apartment address. We're at a standstill again."

He tipped his head and waggled his pen at her. "Maybe not. Guess who worked near each of your four crimes scenes at some time during the past twelve years?"

The smile spreading across his face gave Olivia the answer.

"Cusick."

"Smart woman. Let me show you what I've learned."

He placed the map on the seat between them and pointed with his pen to the north end of Central Park.

"In 1993, the Harlem Meer was renovated and the beach added. Cusick was newly graduated from high school, which enabled him to get a high-paying job shoveling sand at what would later become our most recent crime scene."

The pen point shifted to Queens.

"Two blocks from where Heidi Felton was attacked was Ed Doss' Garage, where Cusick worked from 1995 to 2000. Mr. Doss died in February of that year and his garage closed."

The pen moved back over the river via the Queensboro Bridge and stopped at the Hudson River.

"Cusick next worked for a used car lot down the street from where Tonya Phelps was found. He was there only six months. He then worked as a mechanic for a delivery company here…"

He moved the pen northeast.

"…four blocks from the attack on Megan Forester. He was let go in 2004 when they outsourced their fleet maintenance. His job search took him to Electro Starters & Alternators, where he worked until his uncle made him rich."

Olivia picked up the map and examined the four blue circles made on it by Munch. Their pattern matched the one on the station house map.

"That's amazing, John."

"Well, it's not a Mylar cough drop pouch…."

He waited for some acknowledgement of his earlier triumph.

"It might be even better," she told him. "It gives us another place to watch for Cusick."

_Okay—this is better, so the first was good. Nice of you to finally say something about it._

She continued, "Do you have anything on the length of time between his attacks?"

His triumphant smile vanished. "No. I can't correlate his attacks with his employment vis-à-vis time. They also don't match in date order—his latest attack is at the site of his first job, his penultimate job is near the first attack. I haven't found a pattern there."

She patted his arm. "Don't worry—it never hit me to think about this. I don't know what we'd do without you and your brain."

He preened under the praise. "It was a simple puzzle, not hard at all. I'm glad it turned out to be useful."

"Useful doesn't cover it. Can you arrange for Brooklyn North to keep an eye out for Cusick's van?"

"Already done. Does your gratitude extend to buying me lunch?"

She flipped open her phone to call Stabler.

"I can't afford what you think you deserve, but I'm good for Mexican."

May 29  
Apartment #1734  
W. 171st Avenue

Otten stood in front of the apartment door. Sofarelli stood ten feet down the hall, close enough to hear his partner, far enough to whisper into his phone without being heard. Farther down the hall, Fred Malloy watched from his doorway. Both Couch and Judith had tried to convince him to wait in his apartment, but they had failed. Mr. Malloy's hair may have turned from red to white, but his stubbornness still was fiery. He refused to, as he put it, "…sit on my butt while you two go back to your doughnuts like that social worker waste of my tax dollars did. Don't you try and fool me—I'll be watching you. You check on that little girl or I'll have your badges."

Then he had offered them cups of freshly-made coffee and some excellent spice cookies.

_Malloy is feisty with a crust of pure sugar, the sort of man who would call not once, but twice to make certain this child is okay. It's wrong that ACS let him down; if Couch doesn't scream at them, I will._

She knocked on the door, a polite triple rap, and waited.

"Who is it?"

"Detective Otten, New York Police. Can you see through the peephole?"

She held her badge to the lens in the door. The sound of metal scraping against wood, then bumps against the door told her that she was being checked out by someone short.

"Adults?" Couch whispered. Judith shook her head.

The scraping started again. When it stopped, the door opened the length of the safety chain protecting it. A young girl clad in jeans and an oversized white t-shirt peered through the opening. Otten squatted down before the door, enough off-center that the girl could not see her right side. She held her hand open, fingers wide, then curled three fingers to her palm. A flurry of signals agreed-upon earlier described the girl's appearance, which Couch relayed to Captain Cragen via his cell.

"She's seven years old, light brown hair, green-brown eyes, thin and tall for her age."

"Hello," Otten said with a smile. "I'm Judith. What's your name?"

"Uncle Steve said not to let anyone in."

"I don't need to come in. I just want to talk to you for a little while. Is that okay?"

She nodded.

"What's your name?"

"It's Sharon."

"Okay, Sharon. Is Uncle Steve home?"

A few quick questions established that Steve was at work and she was doing math worksheets for him to grade when he came home.

"Does he leave you home every day?"

"No, he stays home some days."

Otten glanced at her partner, who made a stretching motion with his hands.

_Keep asking questions—he doesn't have a match with Missing Persons yet._

"What do you do when Uncle Steve is home?"

"We do stuff."

"Go to the park-type stuff? Play inside-type stuff?"

Sharon's right hand grabbed the hem of her shirt and began to twist it.

"Sometimes we go shopping. Mostly we stay here."

"Sharon, does any of the stuff you do with Uncle Steve hurt you?"

"I burned my hand making soup."

"I'm sorry. Is it okay now?"

"Uh-huh. Uncle Steve put butter on it and a bandage."

"Did he tell your mommy about it?"

Sharon blinked at her. "My mommy's dead."

"I'm sorry, Sharon. Was that when Uncle Steve starting taking care of you?"

"Uh-huh.

A strange motion caught Otten's attention. Couch was panting, tongue hanging from the corner of his mouth, his arms folded elbows-down and wrists curled away from his chest.

_What the hell is he…oh!_

"Sharon, do you have a dog?"

The girl's eyes went wide.

"I had one before Uncle Steve came and got me. His name is Elmo. Uncle Steve said I couldn't bring him with me."

Couch gave her a thumbs-up.

"Sharon—would you like to go see Elmo?"

For a moment, Sharon face lit up like Christmas. The bright grin vanished as fast it had come.

"I can't. Uncle Steve said that I have to stay with him."

Judith flashed her badge again.

"I'm a police detective, remember? I can do anything that the law allows me to do. This means that I can take you to see Elmo."

She glanced at Couch, who still had his thumb up.

_That had better mean that Elmo's available for petting._

"If you unlock the door, my partner and I will take you to our station house and we'll wait there for Elmo, okay?"

The struggle to believe twitched across Sharon's face; smiles warred with frowns and swallows of sick fear.

"Really?"

Judith answered the whisper with an emphatic nod. "Really."

"Okay."

She shut the door. During the scraping and unlocking, Judith waved Couch to the door.

"Could I have a hand up, please?"

Couch reached down and helped Judith to her feet.

"Thanks, Did you call for backup and transportation?"

"Yes—there's a patrol car downstairs to take you and the girl; Captain Cragen knows you're coming. I'll wait here for Uncle Steve; there's a search warrant on the way."

The door opened. Sharon caught sight of Sofarelli and hesitated on the threshold.

"It's okay. This is my partner. His name is Couch. He's going to wait for Uncle Steve while I take you to our station house."

Sharon leaned back and looked at him hard. "By himself?" she asked.

Couch squatted down with much more grace than Judith had.

"No, I'll have other police officers with me."

He caught Judith's attention and pointed at the gentleman waiting down the hall.

"Sharon," he said, "see that man down there? That's Mr. Malloy; he makes really great cookies. Why don't you get one from him before you go to see Elmo?"

Judith took her hand and they walked away from the apartment.

29 May  
Captain Cragen's office

Thanks to the American Kennel Club's web site, Sharon was able to sit on Captain Cragen's desk and show everyone her dog.

"That's Elmo. He's a Pomeranian. We named him Elmo because he's red."

"Looks like a great dog."

Cragen smiled at Sharon from his desk chair, then gathered the attention of every adult in the room with a look. He tipped his head toward the door and they all filed out, leaving him and Otten with the little girl.

Otten perched on the desk next to Sharon.

"Thank you for showing us what Elmo looks like," she said. "Now, can we show you something?"

Cragen typed and the screen shifted to a collection of photos with the header "Help Us Find Karen Olbers—Missing since October 18th, 2004."

"Now," he asked, "do you know who this is?"

The girl examined the screen. "That's me. That's me and Mommy and Granpa and me holding Elmo."

She stared some more. "It says I'm missing. Uncle Steve said I was supposed to be with him."

Cragen steepled his fingers and considered his next words.

_There's no good way to tell her this. Do it gentle or blunt—it's still more than any kid should have to handle._

"You were missing until today. We matched you to a report that your mother filed when you disappeared. We called your mother and she's on her way here with your grandfather and Elmo."

The girl sat stock still, eyes wide and mouth open. Judith moved to touch her, but Cragen held up a finger to stop her.

_Let her think about this first, accept it as true._

"Mommy? My mommy?"

Her voice was soft, thin, younger than her seven years. She began to shake as tears welled in her eyes.

"Really Mommy?"

Cragen nodded and dropped his finger. Judith reached out and turned Karen to face her.

"Really Mommy," she assured the girl as she gathered her in a hug that lasted until her family came to hug her themselves.

May 29th  
Apartment #1734  
W. 171st Avenue

The apartment was decorated in dumpster chic and spacious by City standards, but 'way too small for the crowd of CSU techs and uniforms working it. John and Fin dodged a tech carrying a clear plastic bag filled with bed linens and stepped around another packing tools into a case. A uniform directed them to the only bedroom, where they found Couch overseeing the search.

John pushed in front of Fin to enter the bedroom.

"Detective Sofarelli, I presume?"

Couch glanced at his watch.

"Don't you guys go home?"

"Naw," said Fin, "after a day of nothing but health food and his ugly puss, rousting a pervert sounds like fun."

Munch drew himself to full height and stared down at Fin.

"My dear Detective Tutuola, may I remind you that the U.S. Constitution and the laws of the county and city of New York forbid the heavy-handed rousting of perverts. We are to use the utmost care and concern while investigating any charges against them, while conveying their persons for questioning and arraignment, and while searching their homes and possessions."

His right elbow swung out and connected with a lamp, which fell to the floor and shattered.

"Oops."

Fin grunted. "Care and concern, my ass."

"No, my elbow. The care and concern protected it as it broke the pervert's lamp. How's the search going, Couch?"

"I never worried this much about fluids in Robbery."

"Different evidence needs here," Fin said. "Did you find any?"

Couch gestured at the bare mattress in the center of the room.

Yep and a few traces of blood. Judith said that they have Karen's DNA swab on its way to the lab."

While Fin and he were talking, Munch wandered the bedroom, poking into the closet and bathroom, then left for the living room. Couch heard him strike up a conversation with the fingerprint tech. Fin stayed put, but he examined the room as if verifying the new team member had done a good job.

_I know I'm younger than you and 'way younger than your partner, but I've been primary plenty of times; I know what I'm doing._

Couch came around the bed to face Fin.

"Am I being checked up on?"

"If Cap'n sent you out on a case, it's because you can handle it. We're here 'cause there's paperwork waiting at the house and Elliot wants us at Cusick's last job with him and Liv tonight. So…"

Fin sat down on the mattress. "…we'll make ourselves t'home until we head back to Brooklyn. If the perp shows up before then, it's gravy."

A tech stuck his head in the door and waved at Couch.

"We're done here," he said. "We'll let know what we found."

"Great. Thanks, Tony."

Ten minutes later, the techs and uniforms were gone and the apartment lights were off. Fin sat on the mattress and Munch straddled a chair that he had carried from the kitchen. Couch leaned against the dressing table and filled them in on the case.

"Uncle Steve is Stephen Rollins, approximately 35 years, 5'10", 190 pounds, brown in a brush cut, blue eyes. He moved in nine weeks ago, rents by the month, pays cash, gave a phony previous address to the landlord. He works maintenance at a manufacturing plant in the Bronx, hasn't made friends at work or this building, doesn't seem to own a car, and usually is home by 6:30."

All three looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand by Fin—5:57.

"Earliest Cusick grabbed anyone was 8:00. Rollins don't show by then, he ain't coming back here.

"Sounds good to me. Cards, anyone?" asked Couch.

"Three-handed isn't much fun."

Having made this pronouncement, John hunched over the back of his chair and peered at Couch.

"Let's discuss matters of importance. Who do you think killed President Kennedy—Oswald the lone gunman, agents of the US Government under orders of LBJ, or hired guns paid by the Mafia?"

"Oh, man…." Fin moved his hand to his holster. "You say one more word and I'll tell IAB you had an acid flashback and attacked me."

Couch watched the two partners' stare down, one indignant and exasperated, but with the hint of a smile on his lips, the other earnestly serious, but with one eyebrow cocked.

_And Munch thinks Stabler and Benson are a great team…._

The warning from Fin against discussing this subject rang in his mind.

_From the way Munch rattled off the choices, this must be his hobby horse. I'll get thrown if I pick the wrong answer—not my idea of fun even if he might enjoy it._

John's intense gaze turned its focus on Couch.

_It's time for me to make an impression._

"I prefer," he said, "another theory."

Fin turned to gape at Sofarelli. "You gonna take him seriously?"

"Of course. The assassination of a sitting president is a serious matter."

Couch sat upright and met Munch's gaze.

"I think the scenario proposed by Robert Grant and Douglas Naylor does the best job of explaining the obvious inconsistencies in the lone gunman theory."

Munch blinked. "I don't think I know that one—and I know them all. Please, enlighten me."

"Well…Robert Grant and Douglas Naylor put forth the idea that the assassination was the work of two gunmen who acted independently of each other. Gunman A was Oswald, who thought he was the only shooter. The second gunman never met Oswald but was fully aware of his plan. Using that knowledge, he took his position on the far side of the grassy knoll and fired the fatal shot."

John cradled his chin in his hand and considered this theory.

"From whom did Gunman B learn of Oswald's intentions?"

Couch choose his words carefully. "A small group of people stumbled upon Oswald's plan and realized its importance, but also knew it had no chance of success. They recruited Gunman B to ensure that President Kennedy would be killed at that time and place."

While Munch mulled this, Fin's eyes went wide. He leaned away from Couch as though afraid he might, at any moment, explode.

_You aren't the one I figured would catch me out…._

"What you're saying," Munch said as he compared Couch's info with his own knowledge, "doesn't fit the well-established timeline."

"It does—if you realize that the small group of people were time travelers."

"Time travelers!"

Don't even think about smiling….

"Yes, time travelers—people who could ascertain the effects of Oswald's failed mission: Kennedy would survive to face the consequences of the Bay of Pigs fiasco, the discovery of his extramarital affairs and his ties to the Mafia. He would be impeached and imprisoned, leaving Johnson to lead a demoralized administration in a confrontation with an enraged Soviet Union. The result would be World War Three."

Couch left the pressure of Munch's stare as the older man weighed the feasibility of his theory. He kept his face still, showing only calm belief in his statements.

"Time travelers."

This time, the words were said with a willingness to consider the possibility. The moment John shifted his gaze away, Couch glanced at Fin. He was shaking his head, lips thin with disapproval.

_Yep, I know I'm playing with dynamite—but I'm having so much fun…._

"So—who was the second gunman?"

Couch drew himself up and looked John straight in the eye.

"John F. Kennedy."

The next fifteen seconds were pure entertainment. Munch stared blankly with his jaw open, twitched, swallowed, sucked in his lips and blew them out again, then peered at Couch, first under his lenses in disbelief, then over them in suspicion, then finally through them in thoughtfulness.

"So," he said, "this group went forward in time from November 22nd and brought the president—"

"Ex-president; he had been impeached and convicted."

Munch nodded. Fin gulped, choking on what his partner had swallowed whole.

"…brought the ex-president back to Dallas and convinced him that he must kill himself—why?"

"To prevent World War Three and to preserve his good name and place in history. They appealed to his love of country and of self—how could a man like Kennedy refuse?"

Munch nodded. "I can see it. Once you allow for the concept of time travel, the rest does appear to fall into place. Thank you, Couch—I hadn't run into this theory before. Who did you say conceived of it and do they have a web site?

Couch repeated their names and confirmed that they had a web site.

"Good, very good. Now, if you'll excuse me…."

As soon as the bathroom door was closed, Fin leaned closed to Couch.

"You left out the chicken vindaloo."

Couch grinned. "So you're a Red Dwarf fan?"

Fin nodded. "When John finds out your theory came from a science fiction show, he's gonna be one pissed-off Jew."

Couch nodded. "I'd like see his face when that happens."

Fin's mouth twisted into a decidedly evil smile.

"Me, too. You spin some prime shit; next time I con someone, I'm taking you with me."

The bathroom door opened just as a key entered the deadbolt locking the front door. Couch waved the others to positions on either side of the front door, John by the hinges to swing it shut behind Rollins, Fin hidden by a coat rack hung on the wall. He took his own place ten feet from the door by the television; it would serve as cover should Rollins be aware of their presence and armed. All three had weapons drawn and were ready by the time Rollins stepped in.

"Sharon—what's with the lights? Sharon?"

Rollins took a sideways step, cleared the swing of the door, and flicked a light switch. An overhead light lit the room. Couch aimed at Rollins' chest.

"Steve Rollins? NYPD. Down on the floor—now!"

Munch swung the door shut as Fin moved to cover Rollins. One look at the three of them and Rollins hit the carpet. Two minutes later, he was Mirandized and ready for transport.

"Damn," Fin griped on the elevator ride down, "that wasn't any fun at all."

"Never complain about an easy one," his partner responded. "The next one will balance it out."


	5. Shrinking

30 May  
SVU Squad Room

Having come up dry, SVU now expanded the search for Cusick to out-of-state hotels, rental agencies, etc. The APB for his van covered New England, New York state, Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Delaware—not that any sign of him had come of it. Cusick was in the wind and the knowledge they might not find him until another woman was raped drove them all the harder. Captain Cragen bore the brunt of it, especially after the brass yanked the overtime for their stakeout at E. 42nd Street and directed him to have the precinct patrols watch the health food store on their normal rounds.

Olivia approached him about that decision, closing his office door behind her.

"Captain…"

He held up a hand. "Olivia, I know what you're going to say…."

_I also know that look. I have as much hope of quieting her as a snowflake has of stopping an avalanche._

She put both hands on his desk and leaned over his paperwork.

"You can't let them pull us off that store."

He rested his elbows on the desk, feeling the weight of everyone's—his CO, Olivia, the other detectives and members of the unit, and his own—frustration.

"I have to, Olivia. They not only outnumber me, they outrank me."

"But that's the only sure sighting we've had for Cusick. He'll go back there—I know he will!"

_Somebody remind me why I took the captain's exam…surely it wasn't to defend One Police Plaza's decisions…._

"I feel the same way, Olivia. I know how frustrating it is."

The active listening method for soothing upset underlings backfired. Olivia leaned into his face, close enough for Cragen to admire her white tooth enamel.

"What about Otten and Sofarelli? They're new and we're supposed to dump on them. Why not send them out to sit on the store?"

"Because," Cragen told her, "the psychiatrist is in."

Interview Two  
30 May

George Huang sat facing the door, left leg crossed on right to provide a prop for his legal pad, tie loosened in acknowledgement of the warm weather.

"Alphonse Sofarelli?"

Couch nodded. The interview room chairs fitted a rump standardized in the 1950s, not his own. He shifted, trying to fine a soft spot in the hard wood, set his feet firm on the floor before him, and set his gaze on the slender Chinese man before him.

_He looks no more intimidating than Seung Jai Lee did at my last competition—'course, he mopped the mats with me. Deep breath—focus—focus….don't dwell on how this man can end my run with SVU before it starts…._

Next, it was Detective Otten's turn. She sat, spine straight, hands folded in her lap, and looked the psychiatrist over.

_I wish I had a dollar for every 50-minute hour I've spent with child psychologists for the boys, family counseling for all of us, mandatories after the Rankin and Mueller shootings and the Battaglia massacre…. It did Derek and Dante worlds of good—try to keep that in mind…._

30 May  
Caterina's  
316 E 53rd St

The waiter set a bowl of beef goulash before Don Cragen and a platter of stuffed cabbage in front of George Huang. The psychiatrist dug into his food; Don picked up his spoon but did not eat.

"George, this will taste a lot better when I know why you dragged me to lunch. What do you need to tell me that you couldn't say in my office?"

Huang set his fork down and sipped his tea.

"Don," he said, "we're here because I was hungry. Sometimes lunch is only lunch."

"Fine. It's only lunch. So, humor me—do I get to keep my new detectives or not?"

George nodded. "There are a few things you should be aware of, but nothing to suggest that you chose badly."

Don tasted his goulash and added salt.

"Those things are…?"

"Detective Sofarelli's experience," George said, "has been only with victims of non-violent crimes. Pairing him with Detective Otten is good; she can provide the support and guidance he needs to survive the sex crimes learning curve. Also, his wife works at Children's Services and that can cut two ways. You know how a supportive and understanding spouse can help mental well-being. Since they both handle abuse cases, it will be much harder for them to put their own problems aside and provide each other love and comfort. Their individual stresses could feed upon the other's and wreck both of them."

He pointed at Don with his fork.

"Watch for any signs of that. Having a married detective gives the squad a perspective it now lacks."

"Yeah. Shame I can't order them to stay married."

They both smiled at the thought. Don let Huang eat a few bites before continuing the conversation.

"What about Otten?"

"First of all, it's pleasant to talk to someone who doesn't give me the Evil Eye the moment I come into the room."

Don raised his eyebrows. "I didn't think you were her type."

"Hardly. Detective Otten worked with several child psychologists after she and her husband adopted their boys; I gather the counseling was so beneficial that she is willing to accept my official review of her without apprehension. That being said, there are two things that concern me about Judith Otten."

Don put his spoon down. George cut off his protest before he could speak.

"Just be aware that she is fatalistic, which probably stems from her husband's death on the job. Her biggest fear was seeing his CO come to her door; now that that has occurred, she isn't able to list any other fears. This, coupled with her years of experience, could make her think that no situation is beyond her abilities."

"A middle-aged female loose cannon?"

Just saying the phrase made Don smile. George mirrored the humor with a chuckle of his own.

"Nothing that drastic. Judith lacks only one of the factors that foster self-preservation. Other factors, such as love of her family, concern for her partner, a deep-seated professionalism, should keep the cannon tied in place."

Don scooped the last of the goulash from his bowl.

"What's the other problem?"

George sipped his tea. "I hesitate to call it a problem, more of a personality clash between her and John Munch. Judith has great respect for John's experience and talents, but…."

Don finished the thought. "…but he drives her up a wall. That's normal; everyone who joins SVU needs time to get used to John. Give her a few weeks."

"That may be, but she speaks of her colleagues as Couch, Elliot, Olivia, Fin, and 'Detective Munch.' If Otten keeps her professional relationship with John on a separate plane from the rest of the team, it could spark rivalry.

Cragen waved that worry away. "That can't hurt John any—he thrives on annoyance."

George's half-smile and nod confirmed Don's statement.

"As I said earlier, I saw nothing serious that will keep them from becoming valuable members of SVU."

He held up a hand to call the waiter. "Could I have more tea, please?"

"Coffee for me. George, I know you're just back from vacation, but if there's anything you can tell us about Robert Cusick, we're damn sick of running in circles.

"You know the standard profiles, Don. Anger-retaliatory seems to fit here. You're looking for a man in his late twenties to mid-thirties who is impulsive with a temper. He has a grudge against women in general, so he looks for opportunity, not a specific woman or type of woman. He beats them into unconsciousness as punishment for his own problems and failings. Elliot promised me the case file. If I can glean anything from it, I'll call you immediately."

Don thanked him by picking up the check and hiding his grimace at the total.

30 May  
SVU Squad Room

"Olivia, Greek salad, diet ice tea."

John placed a small bag and tall paper cup on Olivia's desk. Olivia mouthed a "Thank you" around the receiver of her phone.

"You're welcome. Elliot, roast beef, onion, tomato, no lettuce, ice tea."

He leaned over the stacks of printouts and photos to place a wrapped sandwich and cup in front of Stabler, who also was on the phone. He next walked over to Sofarelli.

"Couch, burger, extra cheese, extra onion, extra tomato, extra bacon, milk. I should charge extra for the glare I got with this order."

Couch took the bag from him without looking up from his computer screen.

"I'm practicing for competition next month. I'll burn it off in no time."

He missed John's head shake and exaggerated sigh.

"Maybe the stealth Jew here can explain it to you."

He plopped a bag on Judith's desk—"Chicken salad, egg, tomato, iced tea"—and took the last bag back to his desk. Otten swung around to face him.

"Stealth Jew?"

John unwrapped his brisket sandwich and took a bite before answering.

"Yes. Like the hideously overpriced bombers that no radar can detect, no one can see that you're Jewish. We could send you through the Great Mosque in Mecca at noon on Friday and no one would be the wiser."

"Not true," Couch said around a mouthful of burger. "She's still female and American. That's enough to get her killed."

"But you get my drift."

John ended the conversation with another bite of brisket. He picked up a list of hotel phone numbers and reached for his phone.

"Wait a minute." Judith shot her partner a nasty glance, then addressed Munch. "I don't particularly like being called a stealth Jew."

_Another button found and pushed. I'm good…._

He indulged in a toothy smile before turning to face her.

"Look, Brooklyn—none of us controls our genes or how our parents combined them. It's not your fault—don't take it to heart. Now, what hotel was next on my list…?"

Judith watched him for a moment longer then she turned back to face her partner.

"The nine days are up today."

Couch nodded. "Yep. And…?"

"Nothing."

She reached for her cell phone, punched a few buttons, and waited through a recording.

"Rey, it's Judith Otten. Do you remember a case you and Lennie worked where you shuttled between here and DC? If so, could you call me back? I have some questions. Thanks."

She flipped the phone shut and started on her sandwich. Couch signaled his interest with a raised eyebrow.

"And on the tenth day," Judith announced, "she stopped being a nice guy."


	6. Running with the Pack

31 May  
SVU Squad Room

The last day of May started with a unit ritual that even foul-tempered frustrated detectives had to follow.

"You put in a dollar," Elliot stood by their desks as he explained the rules to Couch and Judith. "Then you pick an excuse. The one closest to John's reason for being late wins the pot."

Couch reached for his wallet. Judith asked for examples.

"One time," Elliot told her, "he came in on crutches and told us he'd been sky diving. Another time, he forgot to tell Cap he was escorting the Russian ambassador—Cragen was pissed. Last month, it was ringworm and two weeks ago, the shower pan from the apartment upstairs fell into his bathroom."

Couch caught Fin's eye.

"Okay—I'm in. John came down with Red Dwarf Apoplexy."

At his own desk, Fin snorted. "He hasn't kicked in your door and wasted your apartment yet?"

"Nope. Either he hasn't had a chance to check Grant Naylor out yet or he's planning some major retribution. You got a pick, Judith?"

She drew a dollar from her change purse.

"Oh…he was thinking and his brain exploded."

Stabler's half-smile and raised eyebrow showed his opinion of her choice, but he took her dollar and headed to Fin for his entry.

"Wishful thinking?" Couch asked.

His partner shrugged. "Detective Munch is very intelligent. I can only hope."

She took the list of hotels assigned to her, dialed the next number and identified herself.

"Do you have a Robert Cusick registered?"

That question echoed through the squad room as the other detectives and several uniforms worked their ways through the lists. So intent on their work that no one noticed when John Munch came in carrying a sheaf of papers. He taped one to the board containing the Cusick case data then he went to every desk and dropped a paper in front of each of the detectives:

Date Victim No. Cusick's Job near Location

28 May Janey Gregor 4 C. P. C. (Harlem Meer), 1993-1994

17 May Tonya Phelps 2 Usave-a-lot Auto Sales, 2000

20 May Heidi Felton 3 Doss Garage, 1995-2000

8 May Megan Forester 1 AAASAP Delivery, 2001-2004

??? 5 Electro Starters, 2004--

Cusick's Job near Location Date Victim No.

AAASAP Delivery 2001-2004 8 May Megan Forester 1

Usave-a-lot Auto Sales, 2000 17 May Tonya Phelps 2

Doss Garage, 1995-2000 20 May Heidi Felton 3

C.P.C.(Harlem Meer),1993-1994 28 May Janey Gregor 4

Electro Starters, 2004-2005 ?????? 5

From attack #1 to #2—9 days

From #2 to #3—3 days

From #3 to #4—8 days

Average: 7 days

Possible Next Attacks: 4 June, 6 June, 31 May, 5 June

Elliot picked up his copy.

"What's this?" he asked, "a written excuse?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. While I was shaving this morning, I starting thinking about the relationship between Cusick's jobs and his attacks. The locations appear to mesh but did the employment dates also make a pattern?"

Munch picked a pen from Fin's desk and used it to point at the paper taped to the board.

"Cusick worked seventeen months with the Central Park Conservatory, six months with the car lot, sixty-eight months with the garage, forty-four months with the delivery service, six months with the starter shop. The first is a prime number, the rest aren't. Only his times at the car lot and the starter shop are divisible by six. It was all very interesting, but since there is not indication that Cusick can handle higher math, the timing of his attacks probably has nothing to do with any of this."

Fin rolled his eyes. Munch held up a hand.

"However…."

He pointed his pen at the second section on the pinned sheet.

"The time between the first and second attack is three times as long as the period between the second and third. The time between attacks three and four is almost the same as the first period. In other words, long—short—long—maybe we're due for another short."

The pen dipped down to the list of dates and circled 31 May. Munch turned to peer at them over his glasses.

"Anyone feel like a stakeout tonight?"

Elliot held up the money from the betting pool.

"Looks like a brain fart to me. Here, Judith—this is yours."

He handed the money to his partner, who passed it on to Otten.

"Congratulations," Olivia said. "I had anthrax; John hasn't caught it for almost a month."

Munch checked his audience, going from Judith's studious avoidance of his gaze past Couch's polite skepticism to Elliot and Olivia's open scoffing to stop at his own partner's scowl of scorn.

_I look like an moron and she makes money from it. Good thing I'm not finished yet._

"Laugh all you want," he told them, "but the brass eats this up. Want to bet that we spend tonight in Brooklyn waiting for Cusick with OT pay?"

31 May  
Rogers Avenue, Brooklyn  
8:50 p.m.

Elliot and Olivia sat in the blue Taurus two blocks north of the starter shop and across from an apartment complex.

"Y'know," she said, "if I wanted to spend this much time in Brooklyn, I'd transfer."

Elliot shot his partner a glance. "I hear Judith was angling for Brooklyn SVU."

"She lives here. It's all about the commute."

An older woman in tan polyester came around the corner with a two-wheeled grocery cart. Both detectives watched her cross the intersection in front of them. Elliot had his hand on the ignition ready to follow her when she entered the corner apartment building.

He let his hand fall back to his lap. "That was exciting."

Olivia noted how tight her partner's jaw muscles were—a sure sign of frustration.

"Patience, partner. Cusick will show. At least we're not sitting here for free."

Elliot's lips smiled but his teeth stayed clenched.

"I can certainly use the money."

Olivia shifted in her seat to face her partner.

"Problems?"

Elliot stared through the windshield and blew a long sigh between tight lips.

"Just the fun of child support and paying both mortgage and rent. It wouldn't surprise me if John had alimony in mind while he worked up that report. After all, he's been there…"

He grinned, this time with a twinkle in his eye.

"…and been there…and been there…and been there…. Maybe I shouldn't complain."

Crown Street and Washington Avenue  
8:50 p.m.

The beige Taurus cruised through an industrial area empty of human life to a pocket of humanity outside an open bodega. John gestured towards it.

"You want some soda or something before we turn around?"

Fin shook his head. "I'm good. You?"

"Same here. As much as I hate sitting in a car, getting out to go is worse."

"Afraid I'll bust you for public urination?" Fin asked. "Don't bother glaring at me—if that look could kill, I'd be ashes by now. Just hold it in; soon as Couch and Judith get here, we can take a break."

"Great." His partner slumped lower in his seat. "Maybe they'll bring us some cough drops, too."

Your Health Shoppe  
8:55 p.m.

"You wouldn't be the oldest in the class. Greg Linton from the Two-Seven started in January; he's fifty-eight."

Judith looked skyward and sighed. "I'm not in the least bit interested in martial arts, Couch. Can we drop it?"

Her partner sat eyes-front for a moment. "It's good exercise."

"Do I look like I need—oh, good. They're locking up. Call Stabler and tell him we're heading his way."

She started the maroon Taurus as Couch flipped open his phone.

"Hold it."

She pointed to the rear view mirror. A green Chevy van had turned onto 42nd Street and was coming up behind them. Couch discreetly looked over his shoulder at the van.

"Wrong plate," Couch said.

"Have we seen other green Chevy vans anywhere near this place?"

Couch reached for his phone. "I'll see if it's stolen."

Rogers Avenue, Brooklyn  
9:10 p.m.

"Got it."

Olivia set her phone on the seat beside her.

"A green van with stolen plates just cruised past the health food store. Judith's following it north. If it turns our way, they'll call on the radio."

"Let's not wait that long. Have Couch coordinate with John and Fin. If this is Cusick, I don't want him to spot us and vanish again."

Soon the radio was airing a crisp conversation between the two cars.

"SVU Three north on Kingston, crossing Lenox. Van two blocks in front of us."

"SVU Two east on Rutland crossing Brooklyn Ave. We'll parallel you on New York. Advise if suspect turns left."

"SVU Two turning east on Lefferts; we'll pull behind you and you can peel off."

"Roger. We'll shadow you on New York."

"SVU Two—suspect van turning left—that's west—on Eastland Parkway."

"We're a block behind you. Suspect van in sight."

"SVU Two turning right—north on Bedford. Want to pass us after the turn?"

Elliot elbowed his partner. "Feel like bait tonight?"

Olivia was intent on the radio; it took her a moment to catch his meaning.

"Yeah. I'm tired of waiting; let's trap the son of a bitch."

She raised the radio. "SVU One to SVU Two—keep tailing suspect. SVU Three—meet us at our location."

Fifteen minutes later, Olivia was standing outside the blue Taurus on the south side of St. Marks Avenue Elliot had parked with the engine running in the center of the block. Although he couldn't see them, he knew Couch and Judith were similarly placed on Prospect one block over. If Cusick didn't show interest in either woman, they would resume tailing him—all the way back to his hidey-hole if necessary.

Two blocks north of them, John and Fin followed the green van. It had turned east on Dean, slowing as it passed two women talking in front of a brick rowhouse. It turned south on Brooklyn, slowing again as it passed a woman walking a brindle bull terrier in front of a church, then it slowed again on Bergen.

"SVU Two—he's checking out a woman carrying two shopping bags. Slowing, slow—he passed her up. Speed at 30 now, turning south on Bedford…east on St. Marks. Head's up, Elliot—we're coming your way."

Elliot nodded once at his partner, who leaned near the door as if locking it. She then straightened and began to walk west. She saw the green van coming toward her but she kept her gaze averted.

_I'm just a normal New Yorker strolling through a neighborhood in Brooklyn—swift, purposeful pace, no eye contact, no sign of weakness or uncertainty. Some day, I'm going where I can wander aimlessly without worrying about who's around me and how dangerous they might be…._

The van pulled to a stop next to her; the driver rolled down his window.

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

She acted startled before turning to face him. His elbow rested on the window frame as he leaned through the opening. He was freshly shaved, hair neat and trimmed; he wore a tan t-shirt, the same color as in Cusick's DL photo. There was resemblance between that photo and this man—enough to make her wary, but not enough to make her completely certain.

"I'm looking for Herkimer Street. Where is it from here?"

She took a step closer to him. "I'm not sure. Maybe it's north of here."

His right hand pulled a folded map from the seat next to him.

"I've got a map; can you help me find it?"

Olivia fought the urge to glance at her partner. None of Cusick's four victims reported any interaction with him; they all had been grabbed from behind, overpowered and dragged into his van.

_We aren't here to play Boy Scout to the lost._

A beige Taurus parked across the street from her location, John and Fin ready to help if needed. Twin flickers of movement between the buildings to her left told her that Elliot had moved Otten and Sofarelli in to back her up.

_He's certain this is Cusick. That makes me certain._

She walked over to the van. At her approach, the driver opened his door. He got out and held the map out to her.

"Can you show me Herkimer on my map?"

Olivia took the map.

_Okay—follow along—let him make his move…._

The map was upside-down. She took her eye from him to turn it around.

His hand wrapped around her wrist in a tight grip. He pulled her off-balance and spun her hard. Olivia allowed the momentum to slam her against the van, remembering that a civilian wouldn't know how to turn the movement against her attacker. The man shoved his left hand up, catching her by the throat, while his right reached for the side door handle.

"Police! On the ground—now!"

The voice was her partner's, but the weapons pointed at Cusick were held by all her squad mates: Elliot at the front fender, Judith behind Cusick with Couch to her right, John on the curb, and Fin at the van's rear quarter panel. Cusick whipped his head around, checking the solidity of the circle surrounding him, then he released his grip on her and dropped to his knees.

"All the way down," Elliot commanded. "Olivia, he's yours."

She pulled her cuffs out.

"Robert Cusick, you have the right to remain…."

1 June  
Corner booth  
McMullen's Bar

"Here's to serial rapists who give it up the second they face Stabler and Benson in the box."

Five mugs rose to meet John's in an atonal clang of glass and good cheer. Cusick, to his credit, had not delayed their celebration with denials of guilt or other stalling tactics. As soon as the cuffs hit his wrists, a tale of matriarchal oppression and thwarted relationships poured from his throat; he still was bemoaning his fate as the bus left for Rikers.

"They all should be that easy," Olivia stated.

"If it was," Elliot said, "we wouldn't be needed. We could get jobs with better pay and conditions and then where would we be?"

"Home, asleep."

"Wouldn't be sitting in no cop bar drinking w'friends."

"Hear, hear."

Couch emptied the pitcher into their glasses and signaled for another. Elliot tapped him on the arm.

"New blood buys tonight, Sofarelli."

The younger man's eyes bugged out and his jaw gaped open.

"It does? Hell, in that case…."

He waved both arms at the bartender.

"Hey, Pete. Change that to one mug—six straws."

A hail of laughter greeted his joke. The conversation turned from work to sports to politics to work again, fueled by beer, the glow of a hard job done well, and the desire to bond as a team.

"So, what the worse you two have faced on the job?"

Munch peered at Couch first.

"Well, I guess it was right after Elliot made detective. We got a call to an pet store on Ryles Street, unknown trouble. Stickley, my partner takes the front; I go around back. There's no sign of anyone, but the back door is wide open. I edge around to look inside and something cool and thin hits the side of my face and falls inside my collar. I had a split second to realize that, whatever it was, it didn't burn or hurt, then it started to wriggle…."

Shudders hit all five listeners.

"I jumped back around the corner of the building and grabbed it before it disappeared inside my shirt."

"Snake?" Fin asked, his face distorted in revulsion.

"Yep. King snake—thankfully, not poisonous. I dropped it on the ground and called for backup. The owner got all upset over the loss of that snake. Seems it was his pet."

Olivia shrugged. "So a snake got thrown at you—that's the worst you ever faced?"

"It wasn't the snake—it was the fact that I let something get thrown in my face. For weeks afterward, I had nightmares about acid, scorpions, cleaning chemicals, anything that might blind or kill me. It's the nightmares that made it so bad."

"Makes sense to me," Munch said before peering at Otten. "Now, it's your turn"

Judith frowned at her beer. "Mine isn't as funny."

"Worst things rarely are," Olivia told her. 'Go on…."

Judith sighed. "Before I was Homicide, I was with the Organized Crime Task Force. I went undercover as a nanny working for Simone DiAngelo, one of Joe Battaglia's daughters—an assignment I got because I don't look like I speak Italian."

She gave John a pointed stare that he met with an raised eyebrow.

"The Russian mob was starting to move into the Bronx and the Battaglias were fighting back—targeting their dealers, hitting their strong-arm guys, trying to make it too expensive to take over their territory. The Russians decided to end it by taking out Joe Battaglia—not an uncommon tactic, except that, unlike the Mafia we all know and love, the Russians didn't care if Battaglia was surrounded by his men or by his family or by total strangers. They hit one sunny afternoon as he was returning from the park with his grandchildren and their nannies—a drive-by that left Battaglia and three kids dead, everyone else wounded."

Judith dropped her gaze to the table and drew her arms close to her sides.

"I was unarmed—why would a nanny carry? All I could do was knock the other nanny to the ground and try to protect the two girls I was watching. It wasn't enough."

"It was enough for a Medal of Valor," Fin assured her. "Yeah, I know—a medal don't bring anyone back, but you did it right and that's what counts."

"Yeah," chimed in Olivia. "That's all we can do—the best we can. Sometimes it works, sometimes all we get is shit."

"And that," said Elliot, "is the sign that my partner has had her limit."

A slow grin spread across Olivia's face.

"What? My saying 'shit'? Hell, Elliot—I say 'shit' all the time. Shit, shit, shit…."

Elliot winked at his friends. "See? She even admits being shit-faced."

Groans greeted his joke as the mood lightened. They traded stories for another half-hour, then, as a group, headed out the door.

"Where'd you park, Couch?" John asked.

Couch pointed north. "That way about a block. Why—you need a ride?"

"No, no—just wondered. Good night to all of you fine people. Sleep well."

He spun on his heel and disappeared into the night. Judith and Olivia wished everyone a good night and flagged a cab to share, leaving Elliot, Fin and Couch to walk to their cars.

"Hey—looks like someone got 'jacked'."

Fin pointed up the block. Just past a primer-red pick-up truck, a black Honda Accord sat on four cement blocks, its brake assemblies exposed for all to see.

"That's my car!" Couch strode up to the car. "How the hell I'm supposed to get home?"

Elliot took a step toward the younger man; Fin grabbed his arm.

"No one wants the wheels off a '95 Accord. Couch played John two days ago; this must be the payback."

Elliot stepped back. "So the wheels should be here somewhere."

"Can you picture John carrying four wheels?"

Elliot snorted. "I still trying to picture John working a tire jack."

"Naw—he hired it out. Called Rent-a-Skel."

Behind them, Couch reached across the hood of his car and took a piece of paper from under the wiper.

"Something wrong?" Elliot called from the safety of ten feet away.

Couch stomped back to them and thrust the paper into Elliot's hands.

"Here—read it."

Elliot angled the paper to catch the available light.

" 'Perhaps Robbie and Dougie can help you find your missing parts.' Looks like John's handwriting. Guess you're screwed."

Couch snatched the paper back, crushed it with one hand and threw it in the gutter. A stream of gutturals poured from his lips as he cursed his car, his wheels, Munch's ancestry and his chances for a happy future.

Fin leaned close to Elliot. "Maybe he's not completely screwed."

He pointed to the pick-up truck. A large cardboard carton sat centered in its bed; the printing on the box read:

_Spring Hill Nursery_

_Rhododendron x 'Hinode-giri', Azalea, Dwarf Red Hardy_

1 dozen, 1 gallon pots

By standing on tip-toe, Elliot could see a stack of tires and rims inside the box.

"Five bucks says it takes Couch more than thirty minutes to find his wheels."

Fin nodded. The two of them settled against the side of the truck to see who would win the bet.


End file.
